


R.E.M.

by BlueLonghand



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017), Riverdale (TV 2017) RPF
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Pandemics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27062557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueLonghand/pseuds/BlueLonghand
Summary: When a global pandemic puts an end to their plans for spring break in Palm Beach, college juniors Archie Andrews, Betty Cooper, Jughead Jones, and Veronica Lodge end up quarantining together in New Jersey. But a lifetime's worth of hidden feelings mean that a pandemic may not be the biggest surprise in store for Jughead and Betty.Also, there's some "Truth or Dare" because... well, of course there is.Slightly AU, as the characters are in their early twenties in 2020 (and, apparently, still playing "Truth or Dare.")
Relationships: Archie Andrews/Veronica Lodge, Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 64
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In 1997, a massive ice storm shut down my city for more than a week. Some close friends and I rode out the experience in my one-bedroom apartment. Those memories got me to wondering what it might be like for the Riverdale four to spend quarantine together in a university apartment.
> 
> Fluff and fun, and a chance for me to write something that doesn't require as much mental bandwidth as writing the final chapters of "In the Still of the Night." (Those chapters are still coming; there's just a lot to carry there.)

"It’s the end of the world as we know it  
(and I feel fine)"  
\- R.E.M.

“ _Social distancing_?” Veronica Lodge’s voice dripped with equal measures of scorn and disbelief. “What does that even _mean_?”

“Ask Jughead,” quipped her sometimes-boyfriend, Archie Andrews, glancing significantly at the lanky, dark-haired young man sprawled negligently on a couch that was, yes, just a bit distant from the three friends clustered in a glow of lamplight near the middle of the living room. Jughead’s two middle fingers, raised skywards, were his only acknowledgement that he’d even heard his best friend’s comment.

“You know perfectly well what it means, V,” sighed Veronica’s best friend and roommate, Betty Cooper. “They literally _just_ explained it on the news, as if they hadn’t been talking about it for almost two weeks. No crowds,” Betty began enumerating points on her fingers. “No handshakes. At least six feet of personal space when you _have_ to go out…”

“So we’ll do all that when we get to Palm Beach,” Veronica interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “We can be ‘distant’ at the beach house.”

“ _And_ no non-essential travel,” Betty continued, her heavy emphasis the only indication that she’d been interrupted.

“It is _essential_ that I get to Palm Beach,” Veronica countered in the assured tone of one whose will was rarely thwarted, and whose astonishing levels of privilege were entirely invisible to her.

“And it is essential that I see her in the new bikini I’ve heard so much about, as soon as humanly possible,” Archie added with an exaggerated – and entirely characteristic – waggle of his eyebrows.

Betty suppressed a sigh and reminded herself, as she had done at intervals for as long as she’d known them, that she _loved_ her friends, and that their entitled attitudes stemmed from genuine cluelessness rather than actual malice. “You both know that’s not what ‘essential’ means. You _**know**_ this,” she told them, keeping her tone even through sheer force of will.

“Awww, c’mon, Betty,” Archie pleaded, exactly as he’d been doing since they were both four years old, giving her the very same puppy dog eyes he’d been deploying for just as long.

“You _know_ New York winters just aren’t in my blood,” Veronica added as if she were stating incontrovertible, scientific fact, validated through multiple double-blind experiments and published in peer-reviewed journals around the globe.

“This isn’t a ‘c’mon, Betty’ situation, Arch,” Betty replied crisply, choosing to ignore Veronica’s comment. “It’s a _pandemic_. It’s not just something you can talk me out of.”

“Who’s even going to know?” Veronica demanded, apparently still imagining there was a chance of persuading her friend. Not for the first time, Betty wondered how the best friend she’d known since her sophomore year of high school could have gone all these years without getting to know her better than she did… without learning that some things were non-negotiable for Betty. “It’s not like we’ll be flying commercial. We’ll be taking Daddy’s jet.

“Or, if you prefer,” she added, forestalling Betty’s reply, “Smithers can just drive us the whole way. We’d do it in two or three days. And then, we can be ‘socially distant’ in a beach house with ocean views from every one of its twelve bedrooms.”

Before Betty could even find her voice, never mind frame a halfway appropriate reply, Jughead inserted himself into the conversation for the first time since he’d arrived.

“Boy, you’ve really thought of everything, haven’t you, Charlize Campion,” he said dryly.

Jughead Jones had been Betty’s friend as long as Archie had… since years before any of them had even met Veronica. He’d been her companion in sandboxes and trigonometry classes and more milkshakes than she would ever admit to.

And yet she’d never quite gotten used to his habit of speaking the thoughts she’d never even consider voicing aloud. He was like the living, breathing, and very _**vocal**_ personification of her secret, inner monologue… her Id made manifest.

“It’s a good plan,” Archie jumped in enthusiastically, clearly having missed the Stephen King reference completely, and radically misinterpreted Jughead’s reaction as a result. “We can do distancing or quarantine or whatever once we get there. And if we drive, who’s gonna know?”

“It’s a _pandemic_ , Arch,” Betty said again, some of her exasperation leaching into her tone this time. “You can’t _trick_ it… that’s not how it works.”

“It’s like a souped up flu,” Archie countered dismissively. “I’m young. I’m healthy. So what if I get it? I’d pull through just fine.”

“Same,” Veronica agreed languidly, somehow missing the sudden rigidity of Betty’s posture. “I’ll take my chances for the sake of Palm Beach.”

“You know you’re both morons, right?” Jughead’s words from the couch were deceptively casual, reminding them of his presence and again giving Betty the uneasy sensation that her inner monologue was somehow being broadcast to a much wider-than-usual audience.

“Rude!” Veronica gasped theatrically, but without even a hint of irony.

“Seriously, dude, you can’t _say_ shit like that,” Archie agreed reproachfully.

“Like hell he can’t,” Betty flashed back, almost before consciously deciding to speak, startling herself with her own vehemence. “It’s _my_ apartment, and so _I’ll_ make the rules.” Technically, of course, the apartment was both hers and Veronica’s, with Veronica (or rather, her implausibly wealthy father) paying a disproportionate share of the rent at Veronica's insistence. But since Veronica was rarely there, preferring to stay in her parents’ Manhattan penthouse or at some exotic vacation location, rather than in a two-bedroom apartment in New Jersey, Betty felt deeply proprietary towards the space. “And I’d rather he call you a hundred worse names, than listen to the two of you and your… your… _**BULLSHIT**_ anymore!

“You figure you’d survive if you got this virus? Good for you. You won the genetic and demographic lottery. Live it up.

“But if you bring coronavirus… or even just the fucking flu back with you from your little cavalcade of privilege, you know you might _not_ make it? 

“Mr. Domingo,” she spat, naming their kindly landlord who lived in the ground-floor apartment and invited them to tea with his wife at least once a month, who always called to make sure they were okay anytime he heard sirens in the street or a worrying report on the evening news.

“Or Mrs. Cullen,” she continued, naming the widow across the hall who grew miniature roses on her balcony and liked for Betty and Veronica to knock on her door and show her their outfits before heading out for dates or parties or clubs.

“Or Janey,” she added, her voice breaking as she named the eight-year-old cancer patient she visited three times a week, a child who’d become impossibly dear to her over the months she’d been volunteering in the children’s ward of the closest hospital… a child who probably wouldn’t see the summer, even without a global health crisis.

Betty ran out of words abruptly, and the sound of her own breathing – laboured as if she’d just run three miles – was loud in her ears, the only discernable noise in the stunned silence that had followed her outburst. Janey’s face was vivid in her mind, more real and more compelling than those of her three closest friends, even they were in the room with her.

“Betty said ‘bullshit,’” Archie whispered delightedly after a pause that was a bit too long for comfort, “ _and_ ‘hell’ _and_ ‘fucking,’” and Betty knew she’d won, even before Veronica sighed gustily.

“Looks like we’re spending Spring Break in New Jersey.”


	2. Chapter 2

Joking aside, Jughead had to admit that “social distancing” sounded pretty similar to “business as usual” for him. Not going to classes would, of course, be a bit of a change to his routine… although, in light of his usual habit of arriving early to every class, grabbing a seat in the back corner, and glaring at anyone who appeared to even contemplate coming within 8 feet of him until they slunk away, he probably could have kept attending classes in person without even the remotest chance of either catching or communicating anything. And outside of class? Going straight home, having food delivered, and spending the night watching a movie or reading a book – all of which seemed to be on the approved list of activities for the current crisis – was pretty much the extent of his plans, any day of the week.

Except, of course, when Archie or Betty persuaded him to join them for… whatever it was they had planned… sporting events he didn’t understand, concerts he didn’t want to hear, or clubs he didn’t want to go to when Archie was choosing the venue… farmers’ markets or games nights or hikes in nearby parks when Betty was planning. Veronica, of course, added her own, inevitably “extra” flair to their group calendar with ridiculously lavish parties or “openings” or “viewings.” But Jughead would never have attended those extravagant soirées for Veronica’s sake… and he doubted she’d have minded (or even noticed) his absence. They got along well enough, mind you – far better than he’d ever have imagined when the snooty, New York socialite arrived in Riverdale High at the start of their sophomore year – but they were, at best, friends-in-law. Their relationship was a by-product of their respective relationships to both Archie and Betty, rather than a living, breathing, entity of its own. And it was inevitably Betty or Archie who dragged Jughead into the current of a somewhat normal social life… and it was usually Betty who cajoled him into participating, no matter who had planned the specific event. She could coax a “yes” out of him no matter how ridiculous or pretentious or early the event under discussion happened to be.

It really didn’t matter what Betty asked him, or asked of him; Jughead knew his answer for her would ever and always be ‘yes.’ He’s been saying ‘yes’ to Betty Cooper for most of his life, and hopelessly, silently in love with her for just as long… ever since the day in kindergarten when he`d had nothing in his backpack for snack time but a shrivelled apple. He’d known, of course, that his dad would get paid on Friday. And he’d known just as well that, until then, they’d pretty much be eating whatever was left in the back of the cabinets. This was, perhaps, the worst offering the cabinets had yielded since Jughead started school. But it was far from the first time he’d found himself making do with whatever was available, even when it was far from satisfactory.

He’d seen Betty’s look of dismay when he produced the small, leathery fruit, but only just barely. It had disappeared so quickly that, to this day, he wasn’t completely sure he hadn’t imagined it. And then she’d beamed at him.

“We could plant that apple, you know,” she’d told him, eyes dancing with excitement.

“ _Plant_ it?” he’d asked warily. It didn’t look particularly appetizing, it was true. But his breakfast had been nothing more than some dry toast and a glass of clumpy, powdered milk, and supper was likely to be equally meagre, and this undersized and superannuated apple was all he would have to bridge the gap between the two. He wasn’t wildly enthusiastic about burying it in the dirt, no matter how unappealing it looked.

“Un-hunh,” she’d told him, nodding seriously even as her green eyes continued to sparkle. It was the first time he’d ever noticed that eyes could be pretty, like flowers or music or the rain over Sweetwater River in the early mornings. “Please, Juggie,” she’d added wistfully, and that was it… the very first time he found himself powerless to say anything but ‘yes’ to Betty Cooper, even against his own better judgment.

Betty had seized the apple as if it were a precious gem, tucking it into her lunch box almost the second he’d agreed.

And then, before his stomach could even marshal its forces to growl in protest, she was sliding a container towards him.

“You’re lucky you’re allowed to have big apples,” she’d told him confidentially. “Mommy always cuts mine and takes out the seeds.” And he’d seen that the container was full of apple slices, inexplicably white and crisp despite their morning-long sojourn in her lunch bag.

“Why aren’t they brown?” he’d asked wonderingly, and she’d wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“She shakes them up with lemon juice,” she’d told him with evident disgust. “It keeps them _looking_ pretty, but they taste kinda sour. Try them!”

And Jughead had, and had been agreeably surprised at the sweet tart crispness. He’d actually liked the slight, acidic bite of the lemon, and said so.

“If you like them, eat them,” Betty had told him, nudging the container closer to him. “I think they’re icky, but I’m not allowed to have my cookie unless my apples are all gone. And anyway,” she’d added with a winning smile, “it’s only fair, since I took _your_ apple to make our orchard.”

With the benefit of years of hindsight, Jughead now saw what had happened next as inevitable. But at that moment, it had seemed nothing short of miraculous to him that, when he’d finished the tidy box of apple slices, Betty had “discovered” that she had two cookies – big, chewy, oatmeal ones of the kind that never seemed to come in the packages his mother bought when the budget allowed it – and had insisted that he’d earned at least one of them for saving her from her “sour apple pieces.”

And, when school was done, she’d confidently dragged him the six blocks to her house “to plant our orchard.” They’d dug a hole in a corner of the garden she’d said was her own, special place. It had certainly looked different from the rest of the eerily tidy and symmetrical yard, with daisies and seashells and twigs wrapped in pink ribbons poking out of the ground in elaborate and strangely pleasing patterns. And then they’d smashed Jughead’s abandoned apple repeatedly with a rock until they could see its seeds, and they’d buried the seeds and the mashed pulp of the fruit, and assured each other that by summer, they’d have an orchard growing right up to the side of the house.

By the time Jughead had gone home to his inadequate supper, his belly comfortably full of cheese strings and almonds and carrots sticks that Betty had produced as a matter of course, he’d been head over heels in love with Betty Cooper… and he’d stayed that way for the 15 years that had rolled by, as the apple tree they’d so inexpertly planted grew and flourished, and Betty’s habit of feeding him became even deeply rooted than their tree.

If life were a romance novel, he’d often reflected, he and Betty would have shared a tentative first kiss under the boughs of that apple tree at some implausibly young age, and would thus have launched a love that would, inevitably, culminate in a wedding under the very same boughs, grown to maturity. Jughead considered himself something of an expert on such books, having read his mother’s entire stash the summer he was 14, when both the window air conditioner and the TV had been non-functional, leaving the trailer too hot to sleep and utterly devoid of other entertainments. He’d learned that summer that romance novels came in a wide range of qualities, from piss-poor all through way through to utterly transcendent, the only sure marker of the genre being its focus on character, rather than external events, as the driver of the story. But no matter where it sat on that literary spectrum, Jughead knew the narrative that would grow around that apple tree in any work in the genre: childhood sweethearts to devoted old age, with the tree as a recurring (and probably heavy-handed) metaphor for each of life’s transitions.

Real life, of course, was generally indifferent to narrative devices. Which meant that in _real_ life, Betty did indeed love him fiercely. But her love was entirely and unwaveringly platonic, and she’d never shown even a momentary inclination to change that reality.

Real life, he reflected (and not for the first time) would really benefit from the influence of an editor. 

Still, he reflected, concealing his grin with the ease of long practice, Betty Cooper was far from the worst company he could be keeping while riding out an apocalypse.


	3. Chapter 3

“ _Truth_ … or dare,” Veronica demanded, jabbing a manicured finger into Betty’s face so aggressively that Betty narrowly escaped getting poked in the eye. The brunette’s words were perfectly enunciated, without even the barest hint of a slur, but her glassy eyes and increasing volume let Betty know that her best friend had passed “tipsy” territory several drinks ago, and was now well on her way to “wasted.” She repressed a sigh with difficulty.

Drunk Veronica – much like _regular_ Veronica – was… a lot. And _unlike_ regular Veronica, Drunk Veronica could sometimes have a malicious edge to her teasing and an utter disregard for the feelings of people around her. Regular Veronica was, of course, sometimes thoughtless, frequently tone deaf, and _always_ entitled. But she was never cruel. Drunk Veronica, on the other hand? No guarantees.

“Truth,” Betty answered as she had every time her turn came around, all evening. She generally avoided this game at all costs (and honestly, avoiding it hadn’t required any significant expenditure effort since leaving the purgatory of middle school behind), but when she did find herself forced to play – a misfortune that only, ever befell her when she spent time with Veronica – she _always_ picked “truth.” She was, at core, a pretty honest person… a scrupulously and intentionally honest person, in fact. From the moment she’d left home and escaped her mother’s relentless quest to conceal or deny all “unpleasantness” and craft a flawless image, Betty had embraced honesty and authenticity as the founding principles of her life. She’d fought hard for her freedom to tell her own truth, so there wasn’t much anyone could ask her that she wouldn’t freely and fearlessly answer. In her experience, the embarrassment that occasionally arose from total honestly was substantially less painful to live with than the gnawing anxiety of hiding secrets behind a perfect facade.

Not to mention, of course, that the idea of accepting a dare from Veronica was utterly terrifying, even _before_ she morphed into her dreaded 'Drunk Veronica' incarnation.

The night had started innocently enough with Veronica and Archie opening a bottle of wine after supper and demanding a game of 'Truth or Dare' because they were both “just so _bored_ ,” and with Betty and Jughead exchanging a wry and entirely familiar look, along with matching eye rolls, before acquiescing without a fight, or even a discussion.

There’d been a sense of inevitability to it, in fact. They’d been in the apartment for three days now, and the strain was beginning to show in their friends. Archie, with no sports to watch or play, was vaguely dissatisfied at all times. And Veronica, with no galas, parties, or boutiques, was living in her own, personal version of Hell. Jughead and Betty, by contrast, had books, movies, food, and conversation, and so were pretty much happy to hang out for as long as necessary. They could – they had agreed wordlessly, effortlessly, almost as soon as the issue arose – afford to play a stupid game for an hour or two, for the sake of their less adaptable friends.

The _truths_ and _dares_ had started out innocently enough as well. Archie had confessed, when questioned by Betty, that it was he, and not Jughead, who’d inadvertently set fire to the leaf pile at the Hallowe’en party when they were 10, although it was Jughead who’d taken the blame. (Betty had always known that beyond the shadow of a doubt, though neither Archie nor Jughead had ever admitted as much in all the intervening years.)

Jughead, dared by Archie, had attempted to swallow a hard-boiled egg whole, with predictably disgusting results.

Veronica, questioned by Jughead, had freely admitted that she had never in her life taken public transportation. (“Does a commercial flight count?” she’d asked as a point of clarification. “Not if you were in first class,” he’d answered with a grin. “Then no,” she told him shamelessly. “And I earnestly _pray_ that will never change.”)

And Betty, questioned by Veronica, had confessed that yes, she had, in fact, stolen something once: a copy of Toni Morrison’s _Beloved_ from their high school library. (“Don’t you have your own copy,” Jughead had asked, lifting a quizzical brow, “signed by the author when you met her during that internship after junior year?” “Yes,” Betty had answered sniffily, although even she could feel the grin tugging at the corners of her lips. “But the library copy was the _first_ one I read, the one that introduced me to Toni Morrison for the first time. It is _spiritually_ mine, so I figured it might as well be _physically_ mine, too.”)

They’d gotten decidedly _less_ innocent, though, as the evening progressed, and as Archie and Veronica broached their third bottle of wine even though Betty was still lingering over her second glass while Jughead was less than halfway through his first.

“ _Who_ is your ‘one who got away?’” Veronica demanded now, spearing Betty with her gaze and reminding her that it was once again her turn to tell the truth.

“I’m _single_ , V,” Betty answered, trying to mitigate the irritation in her tone and resolutely refusing to let her gaze wander to anyone else in the room. “At last count, they’d _all_ 'gotten away.'”

Archie’s hoot of laughter was more explosive than her mild joke merited, and resulted in his spraying his own shirt with fine droplets of an even finer merlot, one of an improbable number of bottles Veronica had packed for their aborted trip to Palm Beach. Both his hoot, and his subsequent, inelegant coughing and gasping, did drag Betty’s reluctant gaze away from Veronica and consumed her attention for a moment, but she did notice as she shifted her gaze that Jughead’s lips had quirked just slightly in appreciation, either of her comment or of Archie’s ongoing, near-death experience, and her heart did an odd, uncomfortable, and achingly familiar flip-flop.

“You _know_ what I _mean_ , Elizabeth.” True to 'Drunk V' form, Veronica was speaking in audible italics at this point, and was utterly impervious to redirection or distraction. “ _Who_ is your _great_ , _unrequited_ love? Who do you _dream of_ at night?”

And, as quickly as that, nothing about this situation felt funny anymore. Betty’s breath caught in her chest, and for the first time in years, she felt her palms itching for the sharp bite of her own fingernails, for the unhealthy release she’d relied on when she lived with her mother’s relentless criticisms and control, when telling the truth had been a luxury she wasn’t permitted to afford. This was, perhaps, the one truth she wasn’t prepared to tell… the one secret she still guarded, even against her best friends… _especially_ against her best friends.

It wasn’t that she feared they’d tease her for it. Well, if she were being honest, Archie probably would. But Archie was too sweet and too straightforward for his teasing ever to be hurtful, or even particularly well-executed. And Veronica, if she understood how deep this went, would shut Archie down before he could say three words. But Veronica would be aghast, too… hurt that she’d never been told, and excessively committed to extraordinary measures to try to bring about the happy ending that, to her credit, she would insist (and fully believe) that Betty deserved. As for Jughead…

Well, Betty’s brain froze at the thought, refusing to even contemplate the range of his possible responses.

Not that he would ever be cruel, of course. In all the years of their friendship, Jughead's unfailing kindness, his affection and warmth, had been a constant that she'd relied on as completely as oxygen.

And that was really the whole crux of the issue. Because Betty, despite years of berating and castigating herself for it, was apparently too stupid to see and appreciate their friendship for what it was… a wonderful, incredible, supportive _friendship_ that had lasted for most of her life, and seemed on-course to last for the rest of it. Somehow, her brain and her heart simply refused to recognize and accept Jughead’s kindness and care for the beautiful gift they were, and insisted on vaulting right past 'friendship' in order to read them as 'love' instead.

It had been so long by now that she didn’t even remember when she’d fallen secretly, hopelessly in love with one of her best friends. It had probably been sometime during the freshman year of high school, a period when it had gradually and painlessly dawned on her that the crush she’d nursed on Archie since she was three years old was nothing more than a habit she’d outgrown… a realization that may have been helped along substantially by her belated recognition that the only thing in the world less likely than Archie ever returning (or even noticing) her feelings for him, was him developing into someone she’d even _consider_ dating if she met him for the first time. There was nothing _wrong_ with Archie, _per se_. There just wasn’t anything particularly _right_ with him either, or at least not right for her. And beside those revelations had grown a gradual awareness that the absolute _best_ parts of her day, every day, were the parts that she spent with Jughead, talking about books or working on the school newspaper or supplying silly dialogue to late-night movies, or just sitting in a booth at the local diner and imagining the day they’d leave their small town of Riverdale far behind. He’d stood by her when she was buckling under the weight of her parents’ expectations… when she was heartbroken over her sister’s disappearance… when she thought she couldn’t survive another minute in the town that had come to feel like a prison to her. And he’d laughed with her and dreamed with her and worked side-by-side with her when the better days came. There wasn’t an obvious beginning point to it… but long before Veronica came to town and announced herself as Betty’s new best friend, she’d come to know at an almost primal level that Jughead was, and would remain, the most important person in her life.

She’d never told him, of course… had buried the feelings as deeply as she possibly could. Because she knew that if he found out… if he had any _inkling_ of her unsought, overwhelming feelings for him, it would be a disaster. Jughead was always, _always_ kind and protective toward her, and so he’d be grieved at the idea of hurting her. The conversation in which he ‘let her down easy’ would be excruciatingly polite, fraught with his efforts to assuage her embarrassment and assure her that his entirely platonic feelings towards her had nothing to do with any deficiency on her part. He’d blame himself for her hurt feelings… would fear that he’d led her on… would start being careful with her as he’d never been before, second-guessing every word or touch or action when he was with her. And everything would change. Their easy camaraderie, her comfort calling him at any time, day or night, for any reason, or for no reason at all… it would all disappear. At best, she’d become an object of pity to be carefully guarded in the future interactions. At worst, she’d lose him completely.

It was, quite simply, a risk she couldn’t afford to take… the one secret she could never reveal, because the price, in whatever form it took, would simply be too high.

“You know what, V?” Betty said, amazed at how natural her voice sounded, in light of her inner panic. Perhaps her mother’s long tutelage in keeping up appearances had its uses after all… uses beyond keeping the therapists of New York gainfully employed, that was. “I changed my mind. I’ll take the dare.”

Veronica’s eyes narrowed speculatively, but before she could speak, Archie hooted again, this time triumphantly.

“Yes! Betty picked ‘dare!’ She _never_ picks ‘dare!’ She never swears, and she never picks dare, and now she’s said ‘fuck,’ and ‘bullshit,’ and ‘asshole’ _and_ picked ‘dare,’ all in the past three days! Pandemics are _awesome_!!!”

Archie’s enthusiasm, while wildly inappropriate, was so genuine and so infectious, Betty couldn’t help but laugh, feeling a little of her tension drain away as she did.

“You raise a valid point, Archiekins,” Veronica mused, tapping a glossy, purple nail against her lower lip thoughtfully. “Our sweet, little Betty never _does_ choose dare. Which means, _of course_ , that this may be a genuinely once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We _need_ to make it _count_.” She waited expectantly for a beat, then quirked an impatient eyebrow at all of them – Betty included – in turn. “ _Excuse me_ ,” she hissed. “Haven’t _any _em > of you heard of crowd-sourcing??? I need ideas… _now_!”__

____

Forgetting for a moment that she’d been assiduously avoiding his gaze for the past several minutes, Betty glanced at Jughead through sheer force of habit, and found him, as ever, gazing back at her and entirely ready to share a rueful eye roll.

____

“Fine,” Betty spoke up, fortified by that silent and reassuringly familiar exchange, “ _I_ dare me to wash up these wine glasses, put some salt on the stains on Archie’s shirt, and head to bed.” She was almost giddy with relief. It _was_ late… late enough that Veronica and Archie might just be willing to end the evening here and retire to Veronica’s room.

____

“Oooh, I dare _me_ to help you with the dishes, _and_ to finish the pie leftover from dinner,” Jughead added, making as if to rise from the floor where he’d been reclining against the bottom of the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him.

____

“ _Sit_ your scrawny ass _down_ , Jones,” Veronica snapped immediately, her eyes narrowing dangerously again. “Those are _pathetic_ dares, and a _flagrant_ waste of this _golden_ opportunity. A whole _world_ of daring possibilities, and _you two_ are fixated on _dishes_ and _pie_???” Her tone dripped with scorn. “ _Honestly_ , it is a source of _never-ending_ surprise to me that you’re not both going to die virgins.”

____

“Oh! Oh! Yes!” Archie shouted inarticulately, flailing his arms and snapping his fingers. “Virgins! That’s _good_!”

____

“Betty’s not going to be sacrificing any virgins, Arch,” Jughead said dryly. “We’ve only been in lockdown for three days. I don’t think the rule of law has broken down just yet… at least not to a point where that kind of thing could escape notice.”

____

Betty giggled, as Jughead had obviously intended, and the corners of his lips twitched in response as he manfully struggled against an answering grin.

____

“Not virgins,” Archie scoffed sloppily, rolling his eyes so aggressively, he almost lost his already-uncertain balance. “ _Sex_!”

____

“Come again, Archiekins,” Veronica inquired while Betty remained speechless with shock.

____

“Only if they do it right,” Archie snickered. As Veronica’s glare fell on him, though, he sat up straighter and tried to look serious. “ _Sex_ ,” he repeated, as if his meaning should be obvious. “I dare Betty to have sex with…” he faltered a moment, his eyes searching the room as if a likely candidate might be concealed somewhere in the room, just waiting to be noticed. “With Jughead!” he concluded triumphantly as his gaze fell on his best friend. “I dare Betty to have sex with Jughead, right now!”

____

“Out of bounds, Arch,” Jughead growled before anyone else even recovered the power of speech.

____

“C’mon, it’s perfect…” Archie began to argue, only to fall abruptly silent as Jughead lunged at him, his arm across the redhead’s throat, forcing his head back.

____

“It’s inappropriate, and it’s offensive, and it’s a good thing for you, you’re too drunk to be held fully accountable for the shit you’re spewing right now, or Betty would beat the ever-loving shit out of you,” Jughead hissed. “And I’d make popcorn to enjoy while I sat back and watched you get the shit-kicking you so richly deserve.”

____

“It’s too far,” Veronica agreed, and Betty, still slightly startled at Jughead's vehemence, breathed a sigh of relief that her friend hadn’t retreated far enough into 'Drunk V' mode to co-sign Archie’s madness, only realizing as she did so that her hands were fisted at her sides. “But that doesn’t mean he’s on the wrong track,” Veronica added, and Betty stared at her, aghast. “Oh, not _sex_ , Angel Pie,” Veronica waved a hand dismissively, narrowly avoiding knocking over one of the wine bottles on the coffee table in front of her.

____

What, then?” Jughead ground out through clenched teeth, startling Betty again with his tone.

____

“A _kiss_ ,” Veronica replied brightly, as if it should be both obvious and delightful.

____

“Awww… _that’s_ no fun,” Archie whined.

____

“Shut up, Arch,” Betty snapped back, desperately trying to find her feet in this fast-evolving, but continuously nightmarish, discussion.

___Please do, Archiekins,” Veronica cooed in agreement. “I’m _sure_ that kissing our B will be plenty of fun for all concerned… once we establish the _rules_ , of course.”_ _ _

_____ _

“There are ‘rules’ for kissing?” Jughead asked sardonically.

_____ _

“There are for _this_ kiss,” Veronica shot back. “If I left it up to _you two_ , you’d share some prudey, little three-second, pursed-lip peck, and there is _nothing_ daring about _that_.”

_____ _

Betty was still frozen in shock. She hoped Jughead would say something, _anything_ , to end this insanity, but he seemed almost as paralyzed as she by the ferocity of Veronica’s intent. And before either of them could marshal words appropriate to the situation – _**were**_ there even words appropriate to this particular situation, Betty wondered frantically – Veronica had charged into the conversational breach.

_____ _

“Rule number one,” she dictated with immaculate enunciation, “is that Betty has to sit in Jughead’s lap…”

_____ _

“ _Straddle_ Jughead’s lap,” Archie interjected drunkenly, and Veronica nodded decisively.

_____ _

“ _Excellent_ amendment, Archibald,” she conceded. “Rule number one is that Betty has to _straddle_ Jughead’s lap for the duration of the kiss.” Archie howled in approval, and Betty felt her cheeks burn already, even as she dreaded whatever stipulation might come next.

_____ _

“And _speaking_ of _duration_ ,” Veronica continued inexorably with both her dare and her audible italics, “rule number two is that the kiss needs to last at least five…”

_____ _

“Seven!” Archie shouted gleefully.

_____ _

“ _Seven_ minutes,” Veronica continued smoothly, as if no interruption had occurred.

___< >"Don’t forget the tongue,” Archie leered before she could draw breath for another humiliating, impossible stipulation, and Veronica nodded again._ _ _

_____ _

Somewhere, in a very remote corner of her mind, a corner that _wasn’t_ completely consumed with a nauseating mix of anxiety and humiliation, Betty found space to be slightly amused at the glee Archie was so clearly deriving from interrupting Veronica, repeatedly and with impunity. On any normal occasion, interrupting Veronica was an activity only undertaken by those with a death wish. Didn’t it just figure, though, that the one exception – ever, in all their years of friendship – to the sacred law of “thou shalt not interrupt Veronica” happened to be the one occasion when Betty would have sold her soul for the diversion of an epic, Veronica-Lodge-quality meltdown?

_____ _

"Rule number three,” Veronica continued, codifying Archie’s latest contribution to the list of rules. “ _Tongue_ is _mandatory_.”

_____ _

“If we’re kissing for seven minutes, doesn’t that pretty much go without saying?” Jughead growled, startling Betty with his abrupt return to the conversation. “Seems like an awfully long time to just mash our lips together, breathe through our noses, and think of England.” Betty was surprised into a giggle, and immediately, some of her nausea left her. It was simply not possibly to be completely overwhelmed when Jughead was being so utterly… _Jughead_ about the whole situation. For the first time since Archie had brought up the idea of sex, Betty allowed herself to hope that she might be able to get through this without humiliating herself, or alienating her friends.

_____ _

After all, Jughead didn’t know how she felt about him, which meant that this didn’t have to mean anything to him… didn’t have to be a big deal in any way. Kissing ( _and straddling_ , an Archie-like voice in the back of her mind reminded her) with an audience would be embarrassing, without question. But it didn’t necessarily follow that it had to be _more_ embarrassing than any one of a hundred less-than-stellar “Betty” moments over their years of friendship.

_____ _

The time she’d split her pants sliding into home base the summer before sixth grade, for example, ending up sprawled practically under Jughead’s nose with her pink, cotton panties on prominent display…

_____ _

Or her impassioned, and ill-conceived, eighth grade investigation that had led her to burst out of a lilac bush, dragging Jughead and the school newspaper’s camera along with her, and accuse the church organist (erroneously) of a series of cat thefts…

_____ _

Or the “back to school” dance in her junior year of high school when Reggie Mantle had spiked the punch bowl, and she’d ended up tearful and maudlin and wobbling on her high heels in the middle of the dance floor… and then thrown up all over Jughead’s Doc Martens as he was trying to simultaneously console her and keep her far away from any of the dance’s chaperones…

_____ _

No doubt about it; Jughead had seen her at some of her most awkward and inept moments, going back to early childhood. And he’d never once used _any_ of those moments against her, either in anger or in teasing. There was no reason to imagine he’d be any less gracious about this particular awkward moment, even though it _did_ involve kissing ( _and straddling_ , that teasing voice in her mind whispered).

_____ _

And, of course, it wasn’t as if she’d never imagined kissing (or straddling) Jughead. She had, in fact, devoted a not-insignificant (some might even say excessive) portion of her free time over the past 5 or 6 years – ever since it occurred to her that her childhood crush on her next door neighbour, Archie, was based on nothing more substantial than habit and a love for a clichéd narrative – to wondering whether his lips would be as soft as they looked… whether he’d be assertive, or hang back and let her take control… whether he’d be as tuned in to her needs and wants in a kiss as he had always, endlessly been in every other aspect of their relationship.

_____ _

Really, if Betty thought about it dispassionately, this kissing dare was far from the worst consequence that could have arisen from her hasty decision to tempt fate by accepting a dare from Veronica… and Veronica in her drunk state, at that. She could avoid the impossible truth of Veronica’s original question, while satisfying her years-long curiosity about kissing Jughead, and it would all come at the low, low price of just one more embarrassing memory to add to their already impressive shared pile.

_____ _

That was, of course, assuming she / _could _think about it dispassionately. At the moment, sadly, she seemed to be pretty solidly committed to thinking about it… well, _passionately_.__

_______ _ _ _

Which meant there was every possibility that this stupid dare would end up breaking her heart.

_______ _ _ _


	4. Chapter 4

Jughead couldn’t decide whether he loved or hated Archie and Veronica right now… whether they were his guardian angels, his wish-granting fairies, or a pair of demons sent to drag him to what was doubtless a crowded Jones family reunion, deep in the ninth circle of Hell. This was torture and fantasy… a nightmare and his every dream come true. It was the culmination of his boyhood longings, his adolescent yearnings, and the deepest hunger of the lonely man he’d become. All of which meant that he was poised on a knife’s edge between eagerness to achieve his life-long ambition of kissing Betty Cooper, and his deep revulsion at the idea of performing in front of an audience while she gave him a kiss that, for her, would mean nothing, while to _him_ it meant... entirely too much.

If he were an Archie-level dude-bro, of course, the situation would be breathtakingly simple (as, indeed, most situations were in Archie’s experience of the world): take the kiss, the tongue, the straddling ( _dear God_ ) and enjoy them for every pulse-racing, skin-tingling, chest-heaving moment they could offer, with no more complex considerations in play.

Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately; he’d never quite managed to decide – Jughead was not, nor had he ever been, even remotely like Archie in this respect. Their friendship – and the very genuine, though unflinchingly platonic, love between them, which his own, very _**not**_ dude-bro ego had absolutely no problem naming as love – was based more on a yin/yang, tragedy/comedy duality that any real similarity of disposition… particularly when it came to relationships.

Archie loved girls… _all_ girls, of any shape, size, ethnicity, or political persuasion. He loved the ways they looked and the ways they smelled and the textures of their skin beneath his endlessly questing hands. He loved kissing them and touching them and, not-infrequently, making love to them… and he loved all of those things, irrespective of whether or not their relationship had ever progressed to the point of knowing each other’s last names (or sometimes even _first_ names).

He loved Veronica, of course. Jughead knew his friend was sincere about that. But during their frequent and flamboyant break-ups, Archie experienced not even the slightest guilt or hesitation about consoling himself with whatever female companionship happened to come his way. When they were together, he was unwaveringly faithful. And when they weren’t? Well, it wouldn’t even have entered his mind that his flirtations and dalliances had anything to do with Veronica. Jughead would have been tempted to judge Archie for such situational fidelity, except that Veronica seemed utterly at ease operating on the exact same principle.

Jughead didn’t understand it. But he’d long since accepted that he didn’t need to. Archie and Veronica’s relationship was _theirs_ , and so long as they were both satisfied, and no one was getting hurt, he figured it really wasn’t any of his business.

Jughead himself was different, though. He didn’t have to think Archie’s behavior was wrong, to know that it was wrong for _him_. It wasn’t that he thought he was better than Archie or Veronica; he just knew that what seemed to work so easily in their relationship would never work for him.

Kisses, for Jughead, meant something… something more than just a pleasant way of passing the time, or a tingle-inspiring way to get to know someone new. They didn’t have to mean forever, mind you. But they _did_ need to mean… well, something more substantial than “you’re cute” and more lasting than “right now.” They meant some level of connection, of intimacy, of commitment, even if the commitment was already agreed by both parties to be of finite duration.

And the scant handful of girls Jughead had kissed in his 21 years on the earth had all been limited-time commitments, on both sides, as had the two he’d taken to bed. He’d cared about every one of them… liked them… been attracted to them… valued his time with them. He remained friends with most of them to this day. But he’d never taken down his walls – nor invited them to take down theirs – never even tried to imagine something more permanent with any of them. Because in the final analysis, they’d all shared the same, fatal flaw.

They weren’t Betty Cooper.

Betty Cooper, who’d held his heart since the third week of kindergarten…

Betty Cooper, who was kind and courageous and brilliant and beautiful…

Betty Cooper, who knew his pathetic home life and his birthright and legacy of generational poverty, fueled and exacerbated by self-willed ignorance…

Betty Cooper, who never seemed to even _entertain_ the idea that he might be born to perpetuate that cycle, that it was what he deserved… who seemed to take for granted that his own future would be different from his heritage, and who was probably therefore more responsible than anyone in the world – himself included – for his current status as a junior at NYU, when no Jones before him had made it past the junior year of high school…

Betty Cooper who was, unless something changed dramatically within the next few seconds, about to straddle him and kiss him (with tongue) for seven minutes that he already knew would feel too short, even as they risked being entirely too long for him to successfully conceal his feelings, or to ever go back to their comfortable friendship… seven minutes that might very well break his heart.

Of course, she’d damn near broken his heart already tonight. When Veronica had posed her “one who got away” question, Betty had paled instantly. Her eyes had grown huge and haunted, and he’d seen her curl her hands into fists. It had been familiar and startling at the same time… it was like being catapulted back through the years to early high school, to a time when Betty had been dominated and criticized by her mother, alternately used and ignored by her sister, when she’d been hopelessly in love with Archie and devastated to find him just as hopelessly in love with everyone _but_ her… a time when Betty’s face had always been too thin and pale, when her eyes had always been haunted, and when her fists had routinely been clenched so tight, they’d dripped with blood.

His reaction to _her_ reaction, though, had been more than just startled. He’d been _devastated_ to see her revert, even briefly, to a small, scared version of herself that he’d believed she’d long since left behind. And he’d felt like the worst friend in the world, simply because her reaction was so completely unexpected. He’d had no _idea_ she had a “one who got away,” a great, unrequited passion that she’d conceal even at the peril of the fearsome beast that was Drunk Veronica. A part of him was actually hurt that he hadn’t known… that she’d never breathed a word to him about a pain that ran so deep, it could derail the progress she’d made through years of intentional distance from her perfect, plastic, Stepford family and even _more_ years of intensive therapy.

But _he_ wasn’t what was important here, and he pushed his own hurt aside almost impatiently. Betty didn’t owe him her soul or her story, just because he’d silently given her his. She was incredible and courageous, had battled and beaten personal demons that would have crushed many – perhaps most – people. And if a few secrets had helped her to build the life she had now… well, then, she’d earned them and Jughead would be the last person in the world to fault her for it.

He still felt guilty, though… like he’d let her down. Because if she carried a secret this dark, this deep, this painful beneath her sunny exterior… shouldn’t he have _noticed_? He didn’t need her to share her secrets, but shouldn’t a friend at least notice that she _had_ them? Shouldn’t he, at the very least, have sensed the shadows behind her smiles, and stood beside her, even if his support remained silent and her burden remained, to him, shapeless?

Of course he should, he’d answered himself almost before he’d finished framing the question… which had been largely rhetorical anyway, given that the response was a foregone conclusion.

He _should_ have noticed, but he _hadn’t_.

And that? That meant that this kiss, and the heartbreak it would inevitably wreak on him – to kiss her would be Heaven, but to kiss her like _this_ , his love unspoken and unknown while hers was irrevocably committed elsewhere (yet another nail in the already robust coffin where he’d locked his dreams of a life with Betty by his side), would be a special and painful kind of Hell – were his penance, his amends for having overlooked the burden he should have known she was carrying, an arrears payment on the support he should have known she needed.

If kissing Betty allowed her to protect her secrets, allowed her to walk away from this moment with her head high and her heart intact, could erase the haunted, hunted look of her 15-year-old self from her 20-year-old face… if this kiss could accomplish all _that_? Well then Jughead would kiss her, dammit, and would count his own agony as just the down payment on all that he owed her.

And, because he knew Betty… knew her distaste for spectacle, and knew that she, too, saved her kisses for special moments and special people.. he would make this as easy for her as he possibly could. He’d be dry and sardonic and blasé… he’d draw Veronica’s focus away from Betty and onto himself, no matter what the cost… he’d do all he possibly could to remind Betty of their years of friendship, their comfort with each other. He’d try to persuade her, with actions rather than words, that this kiss, this moment, didn’t have to mean anything, even as he knew that to him, it would mean…

Everything.


	5. Chapter 5

This was it, Betty told herself. She could do this. Kissing Jughead like _this_ – with an audience and rules and a distinct lack of any awareness, on his part, of what a kiss from him meant to her – was uncomfortable. But answering Veronica’s original question, acknowledging her years of unrequited pining, fracturing the most important relationship in her life, had been downright _unthinkable_. Which made “uncomfortable” seem like no big deal, by contrast…

And left her with a kiss as the only viable alternative.

“Get it, girl!” Veronica shouted behind her as she rose to her feet, and Archie hooted yet again. Her neighbours, Betty reflected bitterly, were going to think she was fostering a demented barn owl.

She resisted with difficulty the urge to throw them both a chastening side eye, and settled instead for throwing Jughead a glance of silent apology.

She had no difficulty at all interpreting his answering glance – quirked lips, compassionate eyes, a slight shrug – as an equally silent “no big deal.” Nor was it hard to translate his subsequent eye roll as the “we both know our best friends are assholes” that it was. And in that simple, almost invisible moment, Betty felt herself relax, huffing out a laugh that was part acknowledgement , part resignation, but that contained at least a thread of genuine amusement.

Was this awkward? It was. Almost implausibly so, in fact. Uncomfortable? Without question. The end of the world? Not even close.

She wasn’t alone in this ridiculous web of Veronica’s complicated weaving. Jughead was in it with her, as he had been in almost every adventure and misadventure she could remember. And so, awkward and uncomfortable as it was, she’d get through this, too.

As if to underscore his presence and his support, as Betty approached him, Jughead rose from the floor with that fluid grace and economy of motion that always managed to catch her off guard.

“Ummm… I can’t really straddle you if you’re standing, Jug,” she reminded him, wondering if he might be feeling awkward after all, despite his entirely characteristic responses thus far.

He shot her a deadpan look as he settled into the centre of the couch he’d been leaning against since dinner. “You can’t straddle me on the _floor_ without getting sore knees well before seven minutes are up,” he countered.

“You’ve been _sitting_ on the floor for the past three _hours_ , and you don’t think I can last for seven _minutes_? Veronica's italics appeared to be contagious, Betty mused as she exaggerated her own disbelief, mostly to avoid tearing up over this thoughtfulness. It was a small thing, but dumped into the heavy, emotional soup that was already bubbling inside her, it threatened to be too much.

“Asses are well-padded, and designed for prolonged sitting,” he told her with a shrug. “Knees are neither of those things.”

“ _Knees_???” Veronica screeched incredulously. “You two are talking about _knees_ right now???”

“I don’t believe we were actually talking to _you_ about _any_ subject,” Jughead answered mildly without ever breaking eye contact with Betty.

“Quit stalling and start humping!” she countered sharply, and Betty’s head snapped around in spite of herself.

“Categorically _no_ ,” she said fiercely. “There will be no ‘humping’ involved here!”

“Missed opportunity,” Archie muttered, sloshing a bit more wine into his glass, but everyone ignored him.

“The rules _clearly_ state…” Veronica began authoritatively, but Betty cut her off without a moment’s hesitation.

“That I will _straddle_ Jughead for the duration of the kiss. Straddling is _not_ ‘humping.’”

“It is if you do it right,” Archie snickered.

“That’s enough, Archiekins,” Veronica dismissed him. “Fine, _Elizabeth_. You just _hop_ right on up there and show us /em>your _sample of _pure, chaste, Sunday School-appropriate_ straddling. Don’t let _us_ get in your way.”_

__

Betty huffed out an exasperated sigh – probably her fiftieth of the night, and her five hundredth of a lockdown that was still, incredibly, barely three days old – turning back to Jughead, who was, improbably, looking genuinely amused. As she hesitated, trying to imagine how one went about the business of straddling one’s life-long and thoroughly platonic best friend, with whom one was secretly in love, he patted his lap and waggled his eyebrows at her lasciviously, causing her to burst out laughing, exactly as he’d very obviously intended.

__

“I really _am_ sorry about this,” she whispered as she finally approached him, but Jughead shrugged again.

__

“I can think of worse ways to ride out the Apocalypse,” he told her, pretty much echoing his unshared thought from the first night of lockdown. He’d pitched his voice low enough to escape Archie and Veronica’s notice as they’d started bickering over something no-doubt trivial.

__

Betty had to smile. Despite the lingering, unavoidable awkwardness of their predicament, it was impossible _not_ to smile when Jughead was being so utterly… _Jughead_ about the whole situation.

__

“So which of the Horsemen is this, would you say?” she couldn’t resist asking him.

__

“Plague seems the obvious choice,” he answered wryly. Then he ducked his chin and grinned up at her cheekily. “I mean, it _is_ Veronica, after all.”

__

“I heard that, _Forsythe_ ,” Veronica spat Jughead’s real, given name as if it were an oath, and Betty giggled, the laughter giving her the last push she’d needed. Before anyone could say any more – and Jughead could wax poetic for _hours_ about the inappropriateness of calling him by his actual name – she knelt carefully on the couch, her knees on either side of Jughead’s lean hips. She did her best, still, to keep some modicum of distance between them, settling her weight back on her rear end, somewhere near his knees.

__

“You okay?” he asked her softly, the stormy, blue eyes she knew so well searching hers. Her breath hitched a little at the intensity of his gaze, but she smiled again, hoping it looked reassuring.

__

“Nope,” she admitted, even as she nodded, still smiling… a bit more naturally now that she’d admitted her discomfort. “But in the grand scheme of things, what’s seven minutes among friends?” She saw his answering smile, before Veronica interrupted again.

__

“Quit yapping, you two,” she called more loudly than the size of the room demanded. “My phone’s timer is set and your time… starts… _now_.”

__

Before she could lose her courage, Betty laid one hand on the side of Jughead’s face, using the other to brace herself on his shoulder, closed her eyes, and pressed her lips softly against his.

__

She knew, of course, that ‘tongue’ was one of the rules. But she’d never been a fan of kisses that just started at an eleven, jumping immediately to sloppy and open-mouthed. That approach left her cold, at best, actively disgusted, at worst. She preferred kisses that started small, and built gradually. And, while this wasn’t exactly a traditional kiss, she couldn’t see any reason that it had to be a _bad_ kiss.

__

She had no idea what was going through Jughead’s mind, what he thought about this whole, impossible situation. But as her mouth found his again – soft and warm and responsive without being demanding – she realized she knew exactly what _she_ thought of it… knew it was better than she’d ever dreamed it could be… knew that, if this was the only chance she’d ever have to kiss Jughead, she wanted to make it count. She wanted to stop thinking about planning and worrying about it and just… live it fully… appreciate it for the once-in-a-lifetime experience she knew it was.

__

With that realization, she felt herself relax, the tension leaving her shoulders, her spine, as she melted into Jughead. Her soft sigh of surrender parted her lips, and she used the moment to deepen their kiss, drawing his lower lip between her own and sucking on it gently, relishing Jughead’s answering sigh and the way his mouth softened against hers, making everything somehow deeper and wetter.

__

Somehow, her left hand had slid from Jughead’s shoulder, across his chest – lean, but more muscular than she’d imagined beneath his signature layers of flannel and t-shirts, washed to buttery softness – then up his neck, until her fingers were twined through the heavy silk of the hair at the nape of his neck, cradling the base of his skull.

__

And now, rather than Betty kissing Jughead, it seemed they were kissing _each other_ , mouths parted, sipping and tasting slowly, lazily, as if they had all the time in the world.

__

Jughead’s hands, which had been carefully, respectfully high on her back at the start of their kiss, helping her to maintain her balance on the outer reaches of his lap, had found their way to her cheeks, cradling her face so tenderly, as if it were a priceless treasure, holding her close as they continued to explore together. It felt sweet and honest and almost unbearably romantic.

__

It felt _real_ , and, caught up in the moment, Betty’s tongue darted out of her mouth to lick briefly at the corner of his. The soft rumble of approval in his chest encouraged her, and she did it again on the other side, before dragging her tongue slowly across the seam of his lips. He gasped in response, and his left hand fell to her hip, grasping firmly and dragging her closer even as her tongue swept into his mouth, taking full advantage of the opportunity his reaction had created.

__

He tasted faintly of the wine they’d been drinking, dark and delicious, and behind it was a tantalizing flavor that she couldn’t quite name… that tasted simply like Jughead.

__

And with that, all conscious thought, all awareness of chronology fled, leaving nothing behind but sensation.

__

_Heat_ … not just where their mouths met, not just where their tongues slide together in long, languorous strokes, but _everywhere_ … every inch of her that he touched, and every inch of her that ached, _waiting_ for his touch…

__

The soft, wet sounds of their mouths, moving together, layered over the deep gravel of the occasional moans he seemed powerless to suppress…

__

The strength of his arms, holding her ever closer to him as his hands shaped and molded her hips… her jawline… the curves of her ass… the crest of her breasts…

__

The sharp pleasure-pain when he plunged his hands into the long waves at the back of her head, gripping her hair hard enough to almost hurt, and yet not nearly hard enough to satisfy the craving he’d awakened in her…

__

The friction of her pebble-hard nipples against his chest…

__

The muted lamplight that seemed to bathe them both in an approving glow…

__

The urge, verging on a compulsion, to get closer to him… to press every part of herself against every part of him, to…

__

A sharp, blaring alarm shattered Betty’s focus, bringing her abruptly, unwillingly back to an awareness of their surroundings and…

__

“Time’s _up_ , lovebirds,” Veronica chirped, sounding downright smug.

__

… and their audience.

__

Betty pulled back almost angrily, to see Jughead looking every bit as dazed as she felt, his pupils blown, his chest heaving, even as a dull flush of embarrassment coloured his cheeks, mirroring the heat she felt rising in her own face.

__

“ _Well_... _well_... _well_ ,” Veronica drawled triumphantly, “hasn’t this been… _educational_?”

__


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is my *life* and yours has been amazing! I will respond to individual comments this weekend, but in the meantime, I really, really want to post this chapter... and to say a big thank-you to everyone who has read and commented or left kudos!

Betty huffed out an impatient breath and flopped over to her left side, kicking irritably at her quilt as she did so. The ticking of her retro-styled, analog clock was driving her insane.

Normally, she loved the regularity, the rhythm, of those tiny _tics_ , measuring out seconds into minutes into hours… a reassuring soundtrack to the life she was choosing to build for herself. She loved the meditative quality, not just of the sound, but of the silences within the sound. She’d bought the clock specifically, intentionally for the purpose of listening to it as a quiet counterpoint to her daily activities.

Tonight, though, those same, regular increments of time served only to underscore just how long she’d been lying here, relentlessly awake, and desperately trying to fool herself into believing that she wasn’t still half-aroused and fully shattered from that impossible, glorious, utterly destructive kiss.

The evening had pretty much ended when their kiss did, with Archie and Veronica declaring– a little too openly for comfort – that they were too turned on from watching the kiss (“Why doesn’t anyone make ‘seven minutes in Heaven’-themed porn?” Archie had demanded as Veronica was dragging him down the hall) and had disappeared into Veronica’s rarely used bedroom without even the social nicety of a ‘goodnight’) to waste any further time in conversation. Jughead had disappeared into the bathroom, presumably to clean his teeth and change into his pajamas. And Betty had managed to wash the wine glasses, stack blankets and pillows on the couch where Jughead had been sleeping for the past few nights, and vanish into her own room before he’d emerged. She’d crept to the bathroom to brush her own teeth when she’d heard Jughead go into the kitchen, presumably for a drink of water (or possibly, knowing him, to eat all of the food that they had), and had managed to get back to her room without their crossing paths. She’d whisper-shouted “goodnight, Jughead” as she’d hurried back, and had heard his soft “’night, Betts” in the heartbeat before her door clicked shut.

And then she’d spent more hours than she cared to acknowledge lying here, staring at the ceiling, and counting the merciless _tics_ of her clock, trying desperately (and failing miserably) not to relieve that incredible kiss, over and over again.

Usually, when she couldn’t sleep – which happened from time to time, for a wide range of reasons (and sometimes for no reason at all) – Betty would layer on a series of bulky and shapeless sweaters, drag a couple of heavy, old blankets out of the chest at the foot of her bed, and go sit on the balcony outside the living room. Technically, she supposed, her balcony was actually a fire escape. But it was a generously sized fire escape, and Mr. Domingo was one of the purists who considered fire escapes an integral part of the city’s landscape, so he’d kept it in immaculate order (in contrast with the many derelict examples clinging dangerously to the sides of buildings throughout New York City and this part of New Jersey). So Betty had dragged a makeshift bench and some outdoor pillows out there, and turned it into her personal getaway in all seasons. On sleepless nights, she’d dress for the weather, whatever it might be, and slip out through the living room window and sit there, sometimes for hours, watching the lights and the windows and the cars below, until the music of the traffic lulled her to the point that she could go back inside to sleep.

But tonight, Jughead was camped out in the living room, as he had been for days and would remain for… however long it took for New Jersey to emerge from its lockdown, sleeping on the very couch that sat in front of the window access to the fire escape. She could, technically, still get there – she’d intentionally placed the couch several inches away from the wall to keep access open – but she wasn’t about to venture into the living room until she knew, beyond a doubt, that he was solidly asleep. The very _last_ thing she needed was to find herself embroiled in a late-night heart-to-heart with Jughead while her pulse was still racing and she hadn’t managed to figure out what she’d say if he questioned her about the unexpected intensity and intimacy of that kiss.

Still, he _had_ to be asleep by now… didn’t he? It had been hours since they’d all turned in… hours, even, since the not-at-all-subtle sounds of lovemaking from Veronica’s room fell silent… hours in which she hadn’t heard anything at all, apart from the normal creaks and groans of the aging building, settlng around her… and the restless ticking of her sadistic clock. (Honestly, _why_ had she bought that thing???) Besides all of which, there was no reason in the world for _Jughead_ to be sleepless tonight… or at least no reason apart from a global pandemic and the lumpiness of the couch, neither of which had appeared to trouble him even slightly the past two nights. For him, tonight had doubtless been a non-event, swiftly followed by untroubled sleep. And Jughead had always slept like the dead; she’d have no problem slipping past him and attaining the refuge of the balcony and the clarity the cold air always brought her. Even if the streets were too silent to soothe her, the escape would provide a welcome respite from her clock and her room and her tangled bedclothes and still-more-tangled thoughts.

Decision made, Betty dragged three of her warmest, ugliest sweaters on over her green, flannel pajamas with their pattern of pink and white hearts, tugged a couple of ancient, woolen blankets out of her blanket chest, and stole silently out of her room, closing the door carefully, soundlessly behind her. She paused a moment, listening again, but was reassured not to hear the telltale rustling of any other sleepless persons anywhere in the apartment as she tiptoed down the short hallway.

As she stole into the living room, she kept her gaze resolutely away from the couch where Jughead was sleeping, although she couldn’t have said whether she did so out of respect for Jughead’s privacy, fear of waking him up, or as a simple defense mechanism to spare herself yet another round of mental replays of their kiss. She crossed the small room as swiftly as the darkness and the need for stealth permitted, slid up the sash of the oversized window just a step behind the couch, and gained the familiar sanctuary of her balcony… only to find it already occupied.

If Jughead was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it. He just tipped her a half-smile of acknowledgement and slid over to one end of the bench, nodding invitingly at the space he’d created for her.

It was all wrong that Jughead was out here… all wrong for _anyone_ but her to be on this balcony, really. Although the apartment was nominally Veronica’s too, Veronica generally preferred to stay at Archie’s, or at her parents’ luxurious penthouse, or at some decadent hotel as she flitted about the globe as a matter of course. And even on the rare nights she stayed at home, Veronica generally preferred to stay indoors, where flattering light and creature comforts created her natural element.

It was all wrong for Betty to be anything but alone in this little space she’d carved out for herself. And yet, it didn’t _feel_ wrong. In this moment, it felt… natural… even inevitable.

The streets below them were silent, empty, rather than teeming with traffic. The windows of apartments all around them and dodgy eateries at street level were dark, rather than blazing with light. And Jughead was sitting right beside her on the bench that was really not designed for two, rather than her occupying it alone. Nothing about this scenario matched up with the way she used this haven. And yet it all felt exactly right.

It felt easy to settle down… to offer Jughead an end of her blankets… to lean slightly into his familiar warmth, so their shoulders wouldn’t jostle each other uncomfortably in the narrow space.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked him, gazing down at the street below rather than craning her neck to look at him, so close beside her… so close, in fact, that she felt rather than saw his half-shrug.

“Haven’t tried yet,” he answered, his voice soft and his warm breath just fanning her ear.

“Haven’t _tried_?” she echoed in disbelief. “Juggie, it must be two in the morning!”

“Probably,” he agreed easily, and with no apparent concern. “But the quiet is worth listening to.”

“You’re sitting outdoors, in March, at two in the morning… to listen to the quiet,” Betty repeated, and although it wasn’t quite a question, it wasn’t quite _not_ either.

Jughead didn’t shrug this time, but the way he spread his hands in front of him seemed to serve the same purpose. “I like the quiet,” he answered simply. “It helps me think.”

“So you’re, what? Communing with your muse?” Betty asked, half teasingly, and was surprised when Jughead laughed loudly enough to startle her, with a slight note of… _something_ that she’d never heard from him before. She spun to face him, only to find an odd expression on his face… something genuinely amused, and yet simultaneously almost wistful.

“I guess I am,” he answered after a beat of silence, so softly she almost didn’t hear him, even sitting as close as she was.

And then they were just sitting there, staring at each other, practically nose-to-nose, Jughead still with that odd, unexpected wistfulness in his expression. Betty found herself wondering what he could read in _her_ expression… found herself reflecting, inanely, that the only other time in all their years of friendship that she’d been this close to him was during their kiss, just a few hours – or possibly a few millennia – ago.

As if he could read her thoughts, Jughead’s gaze dropped to her lips, and her breath caught for just a moment in anticipation.

Only to have Jughead pull back slightly and return his own attention to the street, while Betty silently cursed herself as an idiot. Given their current, near-unprecedented, proximity, it was hardly surprising that Jughead would be reminded of their kiss. That did not in _any_ way mean he wanted to repeat the experience, and gawping at him with moon eyes wasn’t going to change that fundamental fact.

The silence between them stretched, suddenly feeling strained and strenuous rather than natural. In the brittle quiet that had replaced their earlier camaraderie, Betty felt a rising tide of panicked shame. “Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ ,” the critic in her mind whispered insidiously.

“ _Hey_.” Jughead’s voice was firm, and she could tell from his tone that it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get her attention. His face was close to hers again, eyes commanding her gaze, and as soon as he saw that she’d heard him, he began a pattern of breathing – four counts in, a pause, and then eight counts out – that she’d used since she began therapy in high school to calm herself when she felt herself spiraling. Gratefully, she matched his breath, feeling the familiar rhythm pull her back into her own body, back into control of her own mind. She had no idea how many minutes ticked by as they breathed together, Jughead holding her gaze steadily, without a trace of the tension and distance she’d felt only moments before.

And when they stopped, the atmosphere was comfortable again… relaxed… easy.

“How’d you know I needed that?” she asked him, genuinely curious. She hadn’t spiraled, hadn’t had one of the panic attacks that had plagued her adolescence and that still occurred, though infrequently. As far as she could tell, there hadn’t been a single, physical sign that anyone outside her own head could have picked up on to know where her mind was carrying her…

And yet Jughead had. He’d seen her struggle, almost before she’d noticed it, and he’d helped anchor her, solid and sure.

“You tensed up a bit, and your breathing changed,`Jughead said with a shrug, as if it were obvious… as if it were no big deal.

And just like that, Betty’s eyes were flooded with tears. “No one knows me like you do, Jug,” she told him, blinking hard and thankful that he wasn’t looking her way.

Jughead laughed, but there was something self-deprecating, and almost bitter, in the sound. “Not well enough,” he muttered.

“Are you serious right now?” she asked in disbelief. “You saw my panic coming, almost before _I_ did, and you knew exactly what to do to help me ground myself and pull back from it. I don’t think my _therapist_ could have done that. I sure as hell know my own _family_ couldn’t have! How much better could you possibly know me?”

“I didn’t know someone had broken your heart,” he whispered, so quietly she almost didn’t hear him… so quietly, she was almost sure he hoped she wouldn’t.

“No one ‘broke my heart,’” she protested, knowing it was a lie… knowing that he’d at least cracked it just now, just a little, with that pained whisper.

“You took a dare from Veronica,” he pointed out mildly, incontrovertibly. “I’ve known you since before I could spell my own name, and you have _never_ taken a dare from _anyone_. But you took one tonight – from _Veronica_ , of all people – rather than answer her question about the one who got away. 

“Now, I’m no detective,” he continued, and she couldn’t help but laugh as his words irresistibly reminded her of their middle school years when they had both _imagined_ they were detectives, often with ridiculous results, “but it seems pretty clear that our most outspoken friend stumbled on a secret… a truth you weren’t ready to tell. And I had no idea.”

Betty started to speak, without even having worked out what she wanted to say, but Jughead waved her off. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Betts. You don’t have to give me any more of your story than you want to. I’m just… shocked that some _idiot_ broke your heart, and I never even noticed…”

“No one broke my heart,” she insisted again. “It just… went unnoticed.”

“And _that’s_ not heartbreaking?” he asked incredulously. “Christ, Betty, I have some idea what that’s like and it’s _devastating_. And I just… I thought if there was something that big in your life, I’d have known… I’d have figured it out or you’d have told me or…”

“It’s you, Jug,” she gasped before she’d even consciously decided to speak, before she’d even begun to process the revelation that Jughead had pined for someone unattainable too. Her words sounded half-strangled, and she licked her lips and took a deep breath before trying again. “It’s been you for ages… maybe forever. It wasn’t that it was a secret, not really, it was just… How could I possibly have told you, when it was you all the time?”


	7. Chapter 7

Jughead thought he might throw up. Every nerve in his body was jangling, sharp edges of something broken lacerating him on the inside. He couldn’t believe this was happening.

It wasn’t that he’d ever imagined Betty to be a perfect person. (He almost wished he had. He wouldn’t have found her half so compelling if she’d been perfect.) He’d seen her to be cranky and impatient when she was over-extended (a not-infrequent occurrence, given her perfectionist and over-achieving tendencies); vitriolic when she was trying to break free of her controlling mother; downright terrifying when she was crusading against injustice, whether at their high school or in the community at large.

But he’d never imagined she was even _capable_ of being cruel.

He wasn’t aware of having decided to stand up, yet he found himself on his feet, back pressed to the railing at the corner of the balcony, as far as he could get from Betty unless he first got much _closer_ to her, in order to climb back through the window behind her, to the living room and then the apartment door… or unless he threw himself off the balcony to the pavement below.

At the moment, that seemed a surprisingly appealing option.

“Is that supposed to be _funny_?” he spat, barely recognizing his own voice, unable to believe he was directing that venomous tone towards Betty, of all people. “This is just a big joke to you, is it?” He clamped his arms across his own stomach, feeling as though, if he let go, his guts would spill out all over his feet and ooze through the balcony railing, dripping to the pavement below.. 

He couldn’t remember ever being so angry… couldn’t recall a single time in his entire existence when his mood had shifted so drastically, so instantaneously, from peace and calm to utter chaos.

How _could_ she?

That was the thought that throbbed through his brain, beneath the beat of his own blood. He hadn’t been demanding an answer, hadn’t asked her to reveal her secrets. If she’d wanted him to back off, all she’d had to do was _say_ so. There was no call for her to go on the attack like this.

“Jughead, what are you talking about?” Betty whispered, and as his eyes focused, he saw that hers were luminous with unshed tears, her expression one of utter bewilderment, like a child facing punishment for a wrong she didn’t even understand.

“I… you…” he was still furious… or at least, he was _trying_ to be. That look on her face was killing him, though, melting his righteous rage and making him long to comfort her… to _comfort_ her, despite the fact that he felt as if she’d just stabbed him in the gut, twisting the knife for her own amusement. 

He shook his head almost angrily. Betty _wasn’t_ cruel. If she’d lashed out at him this way, it was because he’d pushed her too hard, even without meaning to… because he’d triggered the defenses that she had erected to protect herself, even though he’d had no idea he was doing so. 

“I’m sorry, Betts,” he told her honestly, even thought he was still nauseous with anger. “I know tonight was hard for you, and I shouldn’t have pushed. Honestly, I didn’t think I _was_ pushing… I didn’t mean to. So I really wasn’t ready for you to make fun of me. It probably sounds stupid, but I didn’t even realize you knew how I felt. So it never even _occurred_ to me to prepare myself for you pushing those particular buttons. 

“Yes, it hurt… more than I would have imagined, to be honest. And it still hurts, even now. But that doesn’t make it okay for me to speak to you the way I just did.”

He’d been staring out into the eerily silent street as he spoke, afraid of how he’d react if he looked at Betty… afraid he’d start yelling at her again… or double over in pain… or just crumple into a weeping, soggy heap at her feet.

He chanced a glance at her now, though, and his heart lurched oddly at what he saw. Some of Betty’s tears had escaped during his speech, and were now rolling down her face. If ever he’d needed proof that she hadn’t willfully wounded him, it was there… writ large on her face. Whatever had been going through her head when she’d spoken those hasty words that had decimated him, it hadn’t been malice. 

“You lost me, Juggie,” she told him after a pause that seemed designed to ascertain that he was truly done speaking, in a voice that was still barely above a whisper. “Quite a ways back, actually. And I can see that you’re angry – _really_ angry – and that you’re specifically angry with _me_. I hear that. I just… I don’t understand _why_. I don’t know what I did, or said… or _didn’t_ do or say… that triggered all…” she gestured at him comprehensively, “this.

“I’m listening,” she continued. “Listening _hard_ , and I hear you telling me that I hurt you, and I _hate_ that that’s true, but I can see that it absolutely is. I’m not saying your anger isn’t valid. I just… I don’t understand where it’s coming from.”

Jughead wanted to accept her words at face value… wanted it so badly, it hurt, adding yet another layer of pain to this already-unbearable conversation. But how could he, no matter how sincere her bewilderment seemed?

“You didn’t think it would hurt me to have you make fun of me like that… to throw my feelings in my face after all these years? How did you _think_ I was going to react to a crack like that, Betty? Seriously… how did you see this conversation playing out?”

“Not like this,” she answered quietly and again, he could all but _taste_ her sincerity, “but that might be because I suspect you and I are involved in two completely different conversations. What ‘feelings’ am I supposed to be ‘throwing in your face’ exactly?” She obviously saw him bristle, because she raised a placating hand. “I’m not challenging you, Jug. I’m _asking_ , because I honestly have no clue what you’re talking about. How did I hurt you just now?”

“Not on purpose, I guess,” Jughead acknowledged, letting go of his anger with something akin to regret. It wasn’t that he liked being angry with Betty; far from it, in fact. But anger felt a lot stronger, more powerful, than the hurt sitting beneath it. “I believe you when you way you weren’t trying to hurt me. But… this is pretty raw for me, Betts. It’s not just some crush or something. It’s love… always has been. I’m in love with you, and it runs pretty deep… right to the core of who I am. And so, for you to make light of that…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Betty broke in, an arrested expression on her face now. “Back up! You’re in love with me?” Her tone was incredulous. “Since _when_?”

“Pretty much forever,” he confessed, and then couldn’t stop himself from adding wryly, “maybe longer. And I know you don’t feel the same way. I accepted that a long time ago. But I…”

Now it was Betty who was on her feet, without even seeming to have moved. She didn’t step towards him but the balcony was small, and so the simple act of standing – or possibly leaping to her feet; how _had_ she moved so fast??? – brought her close enough to that he could feel her body heat, a tempting contrast with the chill of the night air.

“But I _do_ , Juggie,” she breathed, and the confusion in her expression had melted away, replaced with a dawning wonder so beautiful, it made his heart ache just to look at it. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I _love_ you… deeply… completely… I’ve been in love with you for _years_. _You’re_ my ‘one who got away…’ the one I’ve been pining for… the one I couldn’t tell you about because I couldn’t tell _you_. It’s you, Juggie,” she added, echoing her words from minutes earlier, as if she wanted him to hear them – _really_ hear them – again. “It’s always been you.”

His first instinct was to deny it as categorically as he had the first time… to lash out yet again against the lie, because how could it _possibly_ be the truth? Life didn’t work like this… was stubbornly indifferent to narrative devices… and only in a narrative – a _fictional_ narrative – did the beautiful, brilliant, golden girl fall in love with the awkward, weirdo loner she’d rescued from his abysmal family and the destiny that should probably have been his.

And yet… Betty _wasn’t_ cruel… had never been cruel, in all the years he’d known her. And it would have been cruel, without question, to continue teasing him after he’d laid his heart so clearly and explicitly on the line. And there she stood, inches away, her eyes luminous now with hope, rather than tears, her honestly plainly written on her open, guileless face.

She loved him.

She _loved_ him, against all logic, all reason… against every calculation he’d ever made of what she deserved or what he had to offer…

And so, rather than answering her in words – they’d been talking for _years_ , after all, while simultaneously managing to fail completely at communication – he reached out, cupping her face tenderly in his hands.

For a moment, he just held her there, reading the truth in her eyes and giving her the chance to see his love, finally unveiled, shining in his. 

And then he kissed her… again, yes. 

But also, he kissed her for the first time… the first time without an audience… the first time that she knew what it meant to him… the first time that he knew that she meant it too.

It was everything that earlier kiss had been – warm and connected and impossibly easy and natural – but was also more… so much more. 

This time, he knew the connection he was feeling was real, not just for show. This time, as Betty’s tongue probed gently at the seam of his lips, as he opened to her, he wasn’t inwardly trying to talk himself out of reading too much into it. This time, the incredibly synchronicity of their movements, the ease with which they read each other’s signals, alternately deepening the kiss and catching their breath, seemed less of a fluke and more of a mirror of their fundamental compatibility.

Time dissolved. He felt as though he’d been kissing her for his entire life… for an eternity, and at the same time, it seemed like mere seconds since he’d taken her mouth with his. It was impossible to know how long they’d been wrapped up in each other, tasting and teasing and tempting… how long he’d been lost in her embrace, her touch. All he knew for sure, when Betty pulled back abruptly, was that it hadn’t been nearly long enough.

“Juggie,” she gasped, her voice lower, more gravelly, than he’d ever imagined it could be, “this is _crazy_.”

“I’m sorry, Betts,” he stammered, pulling back from her immediately, dragging his hands out of her hair where they’d been entwined, silently cursing himself for being an asshole. “I didn’t mean to take so much… to push you too far…” Before he could even begin to spiral into self-doubt, though, Betty laid the fingers of one hand over his lips, while the other rested over his heart.

“What I mean,” she enunciated distinctly, forestalling any more apologies or assumptions on his part, “is that it’s _crazy_ that we’re doing this _out here_ , in frigid temperatures and the darkness of a questionable neighbourhood when we are literally _inches_ from a warm and relatively comfortable apartment.”

Jughead felt a grin tugging at his lips. “You want to move to the couch?” he asked, already looking for the ends of the blankets they’d been sharing to make sure nothing dragged on the ground as they stepped back through the window.

“Actually,” Betty countered, arching a brow at him in an uncanny imitation of Veronica, “I was thinking more of my room.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this chapter pretty much wraps up the story I wanted to tell here. There will be one more short chapter, as sort of a coda to finish the fic rather than just stopping it. Heartfelt thanks to everyone who has read, commented, or left kudos. Hearing from you always makes my day!

The sun filtering through the window had, not the rosy glow of dawn, but the full, golden glare of mid-day when Betty opened her eyes. She woke with a smile, a sense of bone-deep contentment and well-being suffusing her being before she was even awake enough to identify its source. After a moment, though she became aware of the rhythmic rise and fall of breath in Jughead’s chest beneath her cheek, heard the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath her ear, felt the weight of his arm around her waist, holding her close, and memory flooded back in a rush, broadening her smile.

“You’re awake.” His voice, graveled with sleep, rumbled beneath her ear, not loud, but deep.

“I am,” she agreed, feeling no urge to move… knowing that, in this moment, she was more comfortable than she’d ever been in her life.

“Y’okay?” he murmured sleepily, his arm around her tightening slightly, pulling her more securely into his warmth.

“More than okay,” she answered honestly. “Many, _many_ times more than okay.” It was true. Waking up like this, bathed in late morning sunlight, wrapped in Jughead’s arms, was the fulfilment of several years’ worth of her most wistful, impossible dreams, and she’d be perfectly content to spend the rest of the day – the rest of her _life_ , probably – right here.

Memories of the previous night kept bubbling to the surface of her awareness:

Jughead’s anger at Archie’s original, outrageous suggestion... and his wry, gentle reassurance when Veronica changed the challenge to a kiss…

The shocking, unexpected sweetness of their “dare” kiss… and the deeper heat and honesty of the kisses they’d shared on the balcony hours later, when they’d finally realized what it meant to both of them…

The look on Jughead’s face when she’d told him she loved him… and his shy hesitance when they’d moved in here, to her room.

“We don’t have to rush into anything here, Betty,” he’d whispered, gazing into her eyes as they’d stood beside her bed. “We can wait… take things as slow as you want…”

Her laughter had surprised _her_ almost as much as it had _him_ “Jughead,” she’d told him fondly, “we’ve known each other since _kindergarten_. We’ve been secretly in love with each other for years and years. We’ve spent hours – _months_ , probably – talking about pretty much everything under the sun. If we took things any ‘slower,’ we’d be moving backwards!”

He’d laughed too then, softly, ruefully, but he’d still resisted when she sat down on the edge of her bed and tried to draw him down beside her. “I mean it, Betts,” he’d insisted, gazing down at her. “I’ve been in love with you for 15 years, but we’ve barely been together for 15 _minutes_. It just… it feels like it shouldn’t be this easy… like maybe I’ll ruin this if I move too fast or push you into something you’re not ready for…”

“You couldn’t, Juggie,” she’d interrupted him, finally managing to pull him down beside her, close enough for him to read the truth in her eyes. “I’m in love with you… completely, irrevocably in love, and I’m ready for anything… for everything… for _all_ of it. I’ve _dreamed_ of this… of you and me together… for damn near _ever_ … since high school.

“If you want to wait a little longer for your own sake,” she continued, “I’ll respect that. I’d wait for you _forever_ if I had to. But if all you’re worried about is me…”

She hadn’t managed to finish her sentence before Jughead cut her off with a kiss, tender, and yet harder and hungrier than the kisses they’d shared earlier in the evening, as if her words had finally given him the permission he’d been waiting for.

And then? Well, up to that moment, the evening had already been, hands-down, the best of her life. And yet, impossibly, from that point forward, it had gotten a whole lot better.

Smiling now in reminiscence, Betty noticed that Jughead’s heartbeat beneath her ear had sped up as if he’d followed her train of thought… as if he, too, were reliving the hours they’d spent together in this bed before finally falling asleep, tangled together, just before dawn.

She opened her mouth to speak, not even sure what she wanted to say, but before she could sort it out, the unmistakable voice of Veronica Lodge in the hallway shattered the moment.

“Oh, _lovebirds_ ,” she trilled, sounding exactly like someone who _hadn’t_ downed two or three bottles of whine the previous evening, “much as I am _loth_ to interrupt your sex-drenched idyll, my Archiekins is threatening to either die of starvation, or begin cooking in order to ward it off. I’m honestly not sure which is more likely to prove fatal. But I’d suggest you find some clothes and get out here quickly if you have any hope of saving us all.”

Betty’s hands flew to her suddenly flaming cheeks as Jughead dropped his head and let out a groan, eloquent of his embarrassment.

“Clearly, I should have made sure I was back on the couch before Tweedle V and Tweedledum woke up,” he commented ruefully.

Betty shrugged, despite the fact that her own embarrassment at least matched his. “I kinda liked waking up together, though,” she admittedly softly, and was gratified to see a bashful smile tug at Jughead’s lips in response to her words. He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Veronica’s piercing voice penetrated their quiet moment yet again.

“Archie is lighting the stove as we speak,” she warned entirely too gleefully, and Betty stopped smiling at Jughead in a hurry.

“It’s _electric_!” she shouted in quick dismay. “If he is ‘lighting’ _anything_ in our kitchen, something has already gone _horribly_ wrong!”

“Then you and Lover Boy had better find some pants and get out here to face the music,” Veronica sing-songed back.

Jughead groaned again, even as he – yes – hunted around the floor for last night’s jeans, eventually finding them under the bed and stepping into them hurriedly.

Sighing in resignation, Betty turned towards her tiny closet to grab a robe, only to stop as Jughead pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her neck.

“We don’t _have_ to go out there,” he told her, and she knew he was only half teasing. “We could just turn on some music to drown out those two idiots – remind me why we’re friends with them? – and go back to bed.”

Honestly, Jughead’s suggestion sounded significantly more appealing than emerging from the bedroom and facing what was sure to be a grueling inquisition, followed by days (if not _months_ ) of relentless gloating. But…

“You heard Veronica,” Betty replied. “If I don’t get out there, stat, Archie’s probably going to start a fire. He will inevitably respond with lots of heart and goodwill, paired with a truly _epic_ lack of composure or common sense – pouring wine or oil or freaking _gasoline_ on the flames - and you and I will be trapped in here and burned to a crisp in my bed.”

“So we sneak out the window,” Jughead said, this time clearly teasing, not least because there was no fire escape at this window, and they were on the seventh floor, “and abandon them to their well-earned fate.”

“Where would we even go?” Betty asked thoughtfully, playing along with his silliness. “We’re under a stay-at-home order.”

“Surely we could find an abandoned warehouse in the neighbourhood… somewhere we could escape to without attracting notice. Then we’d just need to hunker down and wait this thing out in blissful solitude.”

“Right… just you, me, and a few dozen rats.” Betty couldn’t help smiling as she pictured it.

“ _But_ no Archie _and_ no Veronica,” Jughead pointed out cheekily, and she laughed out loud.

“Don’t tempt me,” she began, but was immediately interrupted yet again. This time, the voice was Archie’s, and further away… from the general vicinity of the kitchen, in fact, by the sound of it. 

“Hey, Betty?” he called, just a bit too casually. “Where do you keep your fire extinguisher?”


End file.
